


Sticky Fingers

by momothespicy (momothesweet)



Category: Marvel, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Dirty Talk, F/M, Face-Sitting, I need to make that clear lol, Peter B. Parker - Freeform, Pizza, Reader-Insert, Smut, Spider-Verse, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 08:23:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17158589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momothesweet/pseuds/momothespicy
Summary: Peter B. Parker has been having a rough time since his divorce. His pretty, younger neighbor helps take his mind off his troubles.





	Sticky Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS YOU FILTHY ANIMALS  
> (and if you're reading this at any other time, merry christmas anyway)
> 
> A commission for the amazing [Chels!](http://twitter.com/meatgiri) Go check out her art and say thank you for giving me this prompt because I know you're all thirsty for daddy long legs and I am here to DELIVER
> 
> This takes place in Peter B.'s universe, either before the events of the movie or after the events if things didn't actually work out. It works either way! And it goes without saying (but I'll say it anyway), Reader is over 18 and is legally allowed to drink.
> 
> Enjoy!

Being divorced sucks.

Peter’s fought giant monsters, mad scientists, and actual aliens from faraway galaxies, but nothing has hurt more than waking up alone in a shitty apartment in the middle of Queens after all he’s been through to get the girl he loves. Er, loved. Things never really worked out. That’s how life goes sometimes.

The whole crime-fighting thing takes his mind off the shittiness. Thing is, he can only do this for so long, especially when he’s getting older and, really, more tired. If it’s one thing he wants out of this whole experience, it’s one night where he can let go, simply  _ be _ Peter B. Parker and not Spider-Man, not some superhuman with a huge responsibility to take care of the entirety of New York.

It’s pushing two in the morning. Peter stares up at the ceiling stained with god-knows-what. Sleep could take him under right about now, if it weren’t for petty thoughts, the ambulance sirens outside, and the knocking on his door.

He sits up and turns to glare in the direction of the latter noise, wondering who the hell besides his batty landlord would bug him so late. With not a whole lot to lose, he shifts slowly to strip down, shove his suit under his pillow, and put on some sweatpants. The knocking continues when he trudges to the door, yawning.

“Jeez, Doris, can’t this wait until—”

He stops speaking when it’s not an old lady at his doorstep. In fact, you’re a pretty young woman dressed in a tank top and pajama bottoms. Peter blinks for a second to make sure he isn’t hallucinating, then grimaces anyway when he remembers the time.

“I’m sorry,” you say before he can speak. “I wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t an emergency, but do you have any earplugs? I live across from you and the guy right next to me brought home his Tinder date. They’re making dolphin noises.”

“Ew.” Peter frowns, glancing briefly at the door next to yours as if that’ll do something to make the noise stop for your sake and his own even if he can’t hear it from his place. “Wish I could help you, kid, but I can’t save everyone.”

You raise your eyebrow. “What?”

Peter  _ is _ getting old. Either that or you look  _ that _ good in sleepwear. He coughs inconspicuously and shakes his head. “Don’t have any, sorry. Try stacking some pillows over your head or something. You don’t have noise-canceling headphones?”

You make a face that surely screams “stay a thousand feet away from me.” Peter’s not very surprised. “Those cost as much as the rent here. Thanks anyway. I tried.”

“That’s what counts.” Peter winks and points a finger gun at you. Surprisingly, you smile and it’s the prettiest thing he’s seen in a long, long time. “Good luck.”

“I’ll do my best. Good night, um…”

“Peter,” he says.

You tell him your name and wave, walking backwards to your apartment. Your smile strokes something within him. Peter shuts the door behind him and sighs deeply, smacking his forehead and dropping back into his bed. “Finger guns?”

 

***

 

He snores well into the morning, only to be awakened by knocking once again. He answers with a grunt and that works for a couple of minutes. The subsequent knocking is louder. Peter grunts louder, as well, detangling the blanket from his body and stomping to the door. Upon throwing it open, he gets the miraculous sight of you for a second time within a handful of hours. This time around, you’re dressed in tight jeans and a v-neck sweater. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t gotten any in a while, but he can’t resist quickly ogling you up and down before greeting you with a raspy “Hey. Got through those dolphin noises last night?”

You roll your eyes. “I think they changed to turtles before I knocked out.”

Peter winces. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Me too,” you say, dipping into your purse resting on your hip then holding out a folded piece of paper. “Take this as an apology for bugging you so late. It’s the least I can do.”

Peter unfolds the token of gratitude, revealing a printed $10 voucher for the coffee shop a few blocks away. “Great. I can get a single cup of coffee with this. Black.”

You laugh. “Come on, dude. You can get a muffin with your coffee. They have a really good one with chocolate chips.”

Peter looks down at himself, shameless (for the most part) and shirtless. “Now you’re just mocking me.”

“Would you prefer that I got you a free trial to a gym instead?”

“Watch it, kid,” Peter says, tucking the voucher away in his pocket. “The coffee’s appreciated.”

“And the muffin,” you add. “I guess I’ll see you around, then?”

Getting his hopes up for a girl your age isn’t the healthiest thing to do, probably. Still, he nods sends a couple more finger guns your way and grins. “Sure. Stay out of trouble.”

You laugh again, reaching out to grab his hands and lower those guns. “You don’t have to threaten me with those. I’m a good girl.”

Peter swallows hard and watches you skip your way to the staircase when you move away and say goodbye. Rubbing his eyes and slapping himself awake, he shuts his door harder than intended and makes sure it’s locked. He curses to himself a few times, pacing the small space and finding himself on his back staring at the weird stain on the ceiling again.

There have been worse moments in his life, right? No way is this a low point; you’re just a pretty, polite neighbor, with a nice rack and no interest in marine animal sex noises. He checks the time, realizes that he doesn’t have to be anywhere unless he hears collective screaming and crashing outside, then exhales knowing what he has to do. He slides his hand down his sweatpants, closing his eyes and trying to imagine what you’d look like with your top off, moaning his name and begging that he come on your tits.

 

***

 

You keep your word to see him around. Peter is usually dead tired or beaten whenever you pop up. You never seem to mind it, though. Every time he hears you speak about your day, he lightens up, even if it’s just by a hair. You’re a breath of fresh air in the city of skyscrapers, a spritely being amongst slow walkers and a slower web-slinger. Peter does his best to listen, to pay attention to all your stories and interests, half of which he’s able to understand. You’re good company. Good, hot company.

A few weeks pass since his first encounter with you. Peter swings through his window and yanks off his mask and suit, stuffing it somewhere out of sight and changing into loose clothing. Thanks to you, he’s gotten back into the habit of hiding his suit. He’s not going to throw you in that whole mess. You don’t need that in your life.

His stomach growls as he scratches his belly and looks at his empty fridge, groaning because it’s like the thousandth time there isn’t anything in there. Too bad his spider-powers can’t summon any food. Pizza it is.

As he’s ready to make a phone call and face the scheduled pizza/customer judgement, Peter hears the sound of your voice outside his door.

“Peter! Are you there?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He sets his phone aside and opens up, leaning on the doorframe and getting a good look at you again. It looks like you just got home from work, sporting a nametag on your unfortunately-covered chest. However, you compensate by presenting a box of pizza and a case of beer. 

“Come to my place for once,” you offer, motioning to your apartment. “Unless you’re too busy—”

“Nope, not busy at all,” Peter interrupts, snatching the pizza and popping the box open to tear away a slice while you open your door. Free pizza somehow tastes way better than when he pays with quarters and dimes. “Mm. You get this from 69th?”

You nod, heading inside to toss your keys onto a small side table and kicking off your work shoes. “Best pizza around here, if you ask me.”

Peter looks around your apartment in awe. It’s the exact same size as his and yet you’ve been able to turn it into a liveable space that doesn’t look like a miserable dump. The lights you turn on give the place a soft, yellowish glow, and your favorite art pieces displayed on the walls give it a personal touch. It also smells nice. Or is this what a clean apartment smells like and he’s just been missing out?

His attention turns when you set the beers down on the dining table (an actual dining table), and when you start to unbutton your shirt. He chews more slowly this time, putting all of his focus on getting a glimpse of your bare skin, until you turn away and head for the bathroom. “I’m gonna change real quick,” you call out. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Hmph. Don’t mind if I do,” he says to himself, plopping onto a chair and setting the pizza box down. After downing the rest of his slice, he grabs a beer from the case and knocks off the cap with his thumb in one painless motion.

You come out of the bathroom shortly, fresh-faced in a tank top and shorts that seem too short to wear around guests. Not that Peter’s going to say anything. He takes a healthy drink of his beer and nudges the box towards you, fighting the urge to take more. “Here. Don’t want to eat all of your food.”

“Oh, you’re gonna be polite tonight?” you laugh, taking a slice and catching all the dripping cheese onto your tongue. With your mouth full, you add, “I was expecting to come back to crust and half a beer.”

“Excuse me, I’m a gentleman,” Peter defends, bowing slightly over the table before reaching for another slice. “A very hungry one, thank you very much.”

The banter continues and Peter enjoys himself very thoroughly. You rant about some of your co-workers and current events, drinking every time you’re ready to curse your way through the story. He beats around the bush about his own day, avoiding conversation about the would-be bank robber he caught on 188th and a group of car thieves up in Flushing. The pizza box is empty in no time. As for the beers, he pops open the last one for you, showing off just a little bit with his thumb trick. 

“Ooh,” you exclaim, buzzed and (hopefully) impressed, “I didn’t know you were so strong.”

Peter chuckles, flexing one arm as he takes another drink. Equally buzzed, he replies, “You don’t know a lot of things about me.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” his mind filters through all the things he can and cannot say, even while under the influence, “I’ve got a degree in chemical engineering.”

“No fucking way,” you say, eyes wide. “You’re lying to me.”

“Nope. And...I’ve met Spider-Man.”

“Yeah, you’re totally fucking with me. What’s he like?”

Peter shrugs. “Kind of a dick. Got some kinks to work out. Fat.”

You laugh way too loudly and snort. “Alright, alright, seriously. What’s something I don’t know about you?”

Peter can do a little more self-deprecation if he’s got more alcohol, but the case is empty and he’s not about to ask if you have anything harder. With the way your body’s flushed and the way you keep laughing and keep looking tastier than the pizza you both just had, he might as well shoot his shot.   
Leaning forward, he answers you, “Did you know that I’ve been thinking about you sitting on my face?”

Silence falls and Peter anticipates your demands to get out of your apartment. You stare at him, awestruck, unable to do anything for a few seconds. Then, you stand to walk around the table and sit on his lap. Usually, Peter’s good at predicting things. This time around, he doesn’t expect you to fully press yourself against him, smirking against his lips after finishing the last of your beer. His heart races and he instinctively puts his arm around your waist, fully accepting the closeness and your quiet response.

“Did you know that I’ve been wanting you to fuck me since I asked for those earplugs?”

There’s his cue. He drops his beer bottle onto the floor in exchange for holding your cheek to kiss you. Beer and pizza taste so much better on your lips, on your tongue when he’s able to catch it with his own. He’s a little drunk and a little more out of practice, given the sloppy kisses and the half-assed attempt to take your top off. You don’t really care. It shows even more when you pull him by his raggedy white shirt and onto your bed. 

Peter gladly splays himself there, enjoying the view of you at the foot of the bed stripping down to nothing. His cock jumps in his sweatpants prematurely and he has no idea how the hell he’s going to last when you grab your tits and crawl forward to straddle his hips. “Fuck,” he curses, “you’re so fucking pretty.”

You giggle, bending down to kiss him again. He gets his hands on you once more, stroking bare, warm skin. One slides down to your ass while the other reaches between you two, finding your wet cunt and groaning at just how aroused you are.

“I’ve been thinking about you so much,” you moan, moving ever-so-slowly against his fingers. “I’m gonna sit on your cock after I sit on your face.”

“Oh please, baby, do it,” Peter moans back. “Come up here. Let me taste you.”

With two fingers, he beckons you by dipping them shallowly inside your pussy. You moan louder, taking his hand from between you two and sucking his fingertips as you inch closer to his face. No fair, because he wanted to do that. He really can’t complain when you hover right over his mouth, spreading yourself open and dripping right onto his lips.

Peter grabs your ass to lower you the rest of the way. He may be rusty with his bedroom skills, but he knows damn well how to eat. And boy, do you taste delicious. His tongue covers every inch of your cunt, leaving no wetness behind while you hang onto the headboard of your bed frame and moan loud enough to reach his ears, shielded by your thighs. He craves the sound even more and doubles his efforts, pushing his tongue inside you and nudging your clit with his nose. 

With each kiss, each lick, each shallow thrust, you tremble and say his name. Peter adjusts accordingly to suck your clit, and once he does, you lose it. He squeezes your ass as you come on his mouth, riding it like he’s the champion of eating pussy. His cock aches for release when you repeat his name over and over, rolling your hips until you break free from his sticky grip and get your mouth on his. He happily tastes you again on your own tongue, shifting in his position to get his clothes off, too. You drop to his side, spreading your legs to fuck yourself slowly with two fingers.

“Got a condom?” he asks as he knocks his pants off and literally tears off his shirt (he needs to remember to buy some more). 

You nod, moaning as you pat the mattress. “Under here. On your side.”

Peter follows, shoving his hand between the mattress and the bed frame to pull out a smashed box full of condoms. Your moans make it that much harder to concentrate, especially when he tears away a package and a half instead of a single one. 

Pleasantries and preparation aside, Peter lies back in bed and grabs your flexing wrist between your legs. He pulls your fingers out of yourself, bringing them to his lips to suck and cry out with satisfaction. “Let’s go, baby. I’m not getting any younger.”

Giggling, you swing your leg over to sit on top of him, then grab his covered cock to stroke several times. It’s embarrassing to say that he’s already close to coming, so he says nothing at all when you position yourself and whine when you sink down, taking all of him inside you. Your cunt makes contact with his skin and hair and he groans at the tight heat he’s been craving for so, so long. 

“How do I look?” you ask, swiveling your hips above him. 

Peter bites his lip and curls his toes, keeping it together as he thrusts up with every word, “Like—a—fucking—angel—“

You enjoy the head start and brace yourself on his belly, bouncing up and down. He lies back and watches you ride him, hands everywhere and settling for your tits, where he plays with your nipples and pulls them just to hear you moan. 

Peter’s breaths grow heavy. Every thrust is another step closer to coming. Just as he hits that sweet spot inside you, he comes into the condom, arching his back from the bed and lifting your knees along with it. A part of him hates that he’s finishing himself off so early, before you’re able to come again. The other part of him breathes heavy with relief, falling back to the sheets and rubbing your sides apologetically. 

You only smile and slide yourself off, taking his hand and guiding it to your cunt. He knows the rest. With ease, he rubs your clit and tucks two fingers inside you, to which you respond beautifully with those sweet, sweet sounds. You come forward for more kissing, and when he massages you just right, you shake above him and come. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, “you like that, huh?”

You nod as he works his fingers through your orgasm. When you quiet down and pull his hand out, he tastes you one last time and wipes the rest of his saliva on his thigh. Hopefully, you don’t see that when you adjust to rest on his chest after he tosses his condom away. 

“Sorry,” he says, putting his arm around you. “That’s all you’re getting out of me tonight.”

You hum in understanding, pressing a kiss on his collarbone. “You don’t need to apologize. I liked it. A lot.”

That’s even more of a relief. Peter rests more comfortably, finding some more boldness to ask, “Heh. You, uh...think we can do this some more?”

Right away, you answer, “Fuck yeah. I’m thinking about returning the favor tomorrow morning.” 

Peter licks his lips when you make an “o” shape with your mouth as pretend to blow him. “You really are a good girl.”

“The best,” you say, grinning. 

Peter’s about ready to fall dead asleep with that being said, until you both hear banging from the wall right behind the bed frame.

“ _ You fuckers done in there? I’m trying to sleep!” _

The two of you laugh, and Peter’s thankful you don’t offer to go another round out of spite. After being who has been for so long, he surprisingly doesn’t know how spiders mate. Or, really, he doesn’t care to know. Tonight, he’s just Peter B. Parker, and for the first time in a long time, things are looking up. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments, kudos, feedback and a universe where I'm not a hot mess are greatly appreciated. <3
> 
> [Tumblr](http://peachofwork.tumblr.com)


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